


Wonderful Horrors

by Nyctolovian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author Projecting onto Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Body Horror, Dehumanization, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, Horror, Hurt Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Out of Body Experiences, Overstimulation, no betas we kayak like tim, set in season 5, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyctolovian/pseuds/Nyctolovian
Summary: Jon experiences an overload from the eye-pocalypse and everything is too much all at once. He loves and hates it all at once.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	Wonderful Horrors

**Author's Note:**

> I thought: its the end of the year. Why not post one for tonight? Like a little toast to myself for getting through this exhausting year.
> 
> So here is this incredibly emotion-pumped fic! Its not written for anyones enjoyment but mine. If you like it though, all the better!
> 
> Btw, just in case, this has some canon-typical horror stuff in it. Just quick descriptions, nothing real-world-y like S5. But just in case anyone isnt ready for it.

Jon could feel his vision growing fuzzy, the sides of it blurring out and what was directly in front growing further yet somehow nearer, despite the fact that he was still sitting on the log, unmoving. The tree in front of him—that poor dying thing, trapped in a hellscape built upon Jon's words, as pitiful as the rest of the world—seemed to stretch in odd shapes, reaching towards him but also leaning away. The blur at the side of his vision expanded to brush against the edges of the tree's outline, pushing it into odd angles. 

Air was becoming difficult for Jon, though Jon doubted he actually needed air anymore. He sustained upon the horrors and fears of the people of his realm now, his far-reaching never-ending realm. While the world directly around him shivered and rippled like the surface of a murky pond, his vision of the sufferings within his realm was crystal clear, a sharp mirror, reflecting sights for Jon's viewing. And view them, he did. In fact, he drank it all in through the pores of his skin and let the sights soak into his flesh, into his organs, into his bones. He watched them with a mix of perverse pleasure and vehement revolt.

People screaming bloody murder, clawing at their faces in desperation for escape, being turned inside out by forces they cannot fathom, standing in a room full of others like them with hollow looks in their faces, sinking into the earth while their limbs are mashed into their torsos, strung up by needle and thread piercing through their flesh like marionettes—

"Jon?"

—burning from the inside out as their skins slowly degloved from their bodies, swallowed and suspended in complete silent sightless nothingness, watching the tortured souls of their loves crushed and uncrushed again and again, heaving uselessly as vaguely human-looking hounds descended upon them—

"Jon!"

—running from the ever-watching ever-knowing entity in the sky, falling unendingly into a bottomless sea—

Something tightened around the Archives' shoulder and he shuddered violently. There was the sense of falling off something. His shivering fingers grasped around dirt and he was made aware of a strident buzzing in his ears, not a tape recorder, something else, he couldn't tell. But it was loud. So loud. 

He let out a whimper. Everything was too much. Everything hurts. His eyes hurt. His ears hurt. His head hurt. His chest hurt. 

But the sights, oh, they were breath-taking. He wished to bathe in it all. Everything, so deliciously beautiful. All the cries of pain and fear. They slid down his throat like a smooth sip of wine.

The buzzing reached a crescendo, wrenching a sob from his chest, a sensation not unlike the ripping out of sinews. 

He couldn't breathe. But did he need to? He didn't. What use was there for a breathing Archive? He didn't need to.

But if he didn't, why was he suffocated? His chest felt unendingly tight, squeezing out tears from his eyes. His face felt hot with an ineffable emotion. The Archives gasped for breath. His arms heaved with each painful inhale, greedy for air. 

There was also an outside noise, a voice, muffled and distant. It was… saying a name. A name. Gi-orh-n… Jh-orh-n… J-orh-n… A funny name. But a familiar one.

What was the Archives' name?

"Jon…"

Was that it?

Gradually, the buzzing began to fade, leaving behind a faint ringing in his ears. The sights desaturated and settled with a patina once again. His vision of his surroundings collided and solidified. 

When he came to, Jon had his back to the ground. Above him, stretched a sky view fractured by stretching naked tree branches. And right in the centre, was a large green eye, hovering, watching. 

With a shuddering breath, he turned his head slowly. Sitting on the log by his side was Martin, who wringed his hands and asked softly, "A-Are you better now?"

"I—" It hurt to speak. His dry tongue ran over his dryer lips. "I— Better."

Martin rummaged through his backpack, fished out a flask and poured a tiny bit of water. "Is it… um… is it alright to touch now?"

As he pushed himself up, Jon blinked, contemplating. "I think… Yes, I think. Nothing beyond… Not a hug." It was still difficult to breathe.

In a split second, Martin was by his side, arm and leg supporting his back. Jon received the cup and used the water in it to wet his lips. He didn't need much after all. The rest, he gave to Martin who drank it. Jon rest his head against Martin's strong arm. He dared not close his eyes for too long, blink for too long. Because behind his eyes, those sights vibrated and welcomed him with wide-open arms. He was parched for the horrific view once more, aching for that high. But he must refrain. 

Jon breathed in. At least, there was the warm scent of Martin's knitted sweater. He was exhausted.

Martin stroked his back, firm and comforting. "I'm so sorry, Jon," he said. "I wish…" he choked on his own words.

Jon knew the millions of wishes Martin's heart sang every minute, every second. All these things were impossible. This one, Jon Knew. 

Lightly, he dragged his fingers through Martin's curly hair, a relaxing sensation, before pulling his face closer to trace a kiss against his cheek, then his ear, then his fringe. "I'm sorry too," Jon said. 

**Author's Note:**

> Heres the context for this fic btw: i woke up, was wronged by the world, got overwhelmed and wrote some of this out, felt better after seeing some good friends, was once again wronged (to a much larger degree), had to crawl into a corner of a family gathering, and wrote out the rest. 
> 
> A lot of what Jon has here? Its me projecting. This is by far the most self-indulgently-venty fic of the year (and good thing its at the end of the year!) Ofc im not receiving visions from the Watcher, but i am feeling so incredibly overwhelmed with... idk. I wish i could go home but i cant. 
> 
> I dont expect this to be good. At all. It's disgustingly motuh-vomit and unrefined and (by my standards) purple-prosey. Still, if anyone happens to read and like this, thank you
> 
> Happy new year, all!
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://nyctolovian.tumblr.com).


End file.
